


and the rest be sent to hell

by forsyte



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Age Difference, Dubious Consent, Emotional Manipulation, Grooming, Loneliness, M/M, Power Imbalance, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:02:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25195858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsyte/pseuds/forsyte
Summary: “If you’ll sit down, Peter—""Mr. Lukas," Peter mutters, his feathers riffling. While he's never been one to stand on ceremony, the director's obvious condescension is making his teeth hurt."Director Wright, actually," comes the response, infuriatingly quick. "And if you'll sit down, please, I have a few forms here on which I require your signature. Standard procedure, you understand."--The Lukas family's new representative meets with the Head of the Institute. Years later, Elias reminisces on a past life.
Relationships: Elias Bouchard/Peter Lukas, Peter Lukas/James Wright
Comments: 12
Kudos: 48
Collections: Wingfic Exchange June 2020





	and the rest be sent to hell

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dramatispersonae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatispersonae/gifts).



> _May your feet serve you well and the rest be sent to Hell  
>  Where they always have belonged, cold hearts brew colder songs_  
> "Let's Kill Tonight," Panic at the Disco

Peter, two years after his last growth spurt, does not quite tower over the new Director of the Magnus Institute, a fact he is surprised to find himself discomfited by. James Wright is a clean-shaven man with an average haircut on the tall side of standard. His dove-like wings—short and broad-looking, and mottled grey and white—are utterly unremarkable. He smiles an average smile as he grips Peter's hand and shakes it, firmly, not breaking eye contact for a moment. His eyes… 

His eyes are an eerie pale grey, and contrast oddly with his hair and skin, and as they bore into Peter the weight of  _ being watched  _ increases tenfold. He does his level best not to react to this intrusion; it is, after all, not unexpected. "Pleasure to meet you, Director Wright," he says, distantly polite and not meaning it in the slightest. 

"Likewise, Mr. Lukas. Peter, is it? Your family has been so very generous over the years, I'm sure we'll get along." Wright has still not released his hand, and now he clasps Peter's in both of his. "How is your family? I've been out of touch. Running an institute is busy work, I'm afraid." 

"They've been… well, I assume," Peter forces out, deeply uncomfortable and trying not to let it show too obviously. He decides to drop the chilly formality—it's never worked for him—and shrugs. "You'd know as well as I would, probably." 

"Oh, perhaps not," Wright chuckles. "It's been  _ far  _ too long, and your predecessors were not, shall we say, particularly chatty. Now.” His eyes rake over Peter’s albatross wings, which will not shed the last splash of muddy immature coloring until his late twenties, a few years from now. “If you’ll sit down, Peter—" 

"Mr. Lukas," Peter mutters, his feathers riffling. While he's never been one to stand on ceremony, the director's obvious condescension is making his teeth hurt. 

"Director Wright, actually," comes the response, infuriatingly quick. "And if you'll sit down, please, I have a few forms here on which I require your signature. Standard procedure, you understand." 

Peter, for reasons unbeknownst to him, sits.

\--

Despite his best attempts at a shroud, he’s still seen the moment he steps foot into the Institute, ten minutes late, and on the long walk up to Wright’s office the director’s gaze feels like needles sinking through him; not painful so much as odd and wrenching and utterly inescapable. He flicks his wings out and resettles them. The motion catches a loose feather, and he scrunches up his face in annoyance, leans against the side of the stairwell and maneuvers his ungainly wingspan until he can pull it off and drop it over the railing. He watches it fall in easy arcs; with a little concentration it disappears from view, and he wishes he could do the same. Nothing for it, now. 

He ascends the remaining stairs and slinks towards Wright’s office, leaning unobtrusively against the doorframe. The door is open and Wright is poring over papers inside. He does not look up. His attention is as piercing as ever. He knows Peter is here, that much is obvious. What he’s waiting for is a mystery. To rub in how  _ important  _ his work is? To wait for Peter to signal his presence, somehow? He’ll be waiting a long time, then. 

At that last thought Wright glances up and catches his eye, and Peter can no longer move. 

The experience is not like an ice-cold scalpel opening his chest while he is transfixed. It is not like being pinned to a bit of cork and put in a display case. It is not like anything. The brief pain of being seen in full is too cavernous for comparison.

And then Wright’s eyes sweep over him and find him wanting. Under the surface of Wright’s easygoing nature there is always a subtle quality to his face, as though his lip is perpetually threatening to curl, and he makes good on that now; he looks at Peter as if he has shown up drunk and covered in mud. Peter regrets not having taken the opportunity. "If this is what the Lukas family calls _ formal wear  _ these days I'm surprised they're still making their yearly payments," he says to no one in particular. "And naturally it's too late for major adjustments. Your tie, at least, I can fix. Come here."

Peter slouches over reluctantly, rather wishing he hadn't made an appearance at all. Wright waits impatiently for him to shamble over; when Peter is halfway across the office he lets out a sharp huff and strides over in exasperation. Peter has barely a second to feel vindictively proud of himself before Wright's hand shoots out and drags him the last few stumbling steps by his shirt collar. He is far stronger than he looks.

"We don't have time for you to dawdle, Peter," Wright chides, fingers rapidly unpicking the loose attempt at a formal knot. He readjusts the lengths he holds in each hand, examines them critically, and begins weaving them back together, too quickly for Peter to easily follow. "I'm aware of your family's tendency to neglect the education of its children, but I am  _ thoroughly  _ unimpressed by your poor grasp of etiquette." Tie knotted to his satisfaction, he steps back and regards Peter with a jaundiced air. "No, that won't do," he sighs. "Take off your jacket." 

"What?" Peter says, bewildered.

"I said," Wright snaps, "take off your jacket." His patience has deserted him, it seems, because he grips Peter's shoulder and bodily yanks him around, hands going to the clasps around his wings. Peter, dazed, works at the buttons in front, wondering as he does at his hands feeling so alien. The director is never inefficient, but he seems driven all of a sudden, and all Peter can do is try and ride his wake without capsizing. 

"You're in molt, of course," says Wright, still in that disappointed tone, "and there's only so much that can be done for the appearance of your wings. Still. Sit down." 

Peter sits down on the backless chair Wright indicates, angling his long wings to avoid bending his feathers against the floor, and then the implications of Wright's last sentence catch up with him. "Hold on," he says, and glances back at Wright. Wright, who has shed his jacket, opened a desk drawer and plucked out an old-fashioned wooden preening comb, buckling the hinged halves of it onto his index and thumb in a practiced motion. Peter's spine chills, and his legs twitch, willing him to  _ get away. _

"Ideally we’d have more time, I know," says Wright briskly, and shuts the drawer, coming around the other side of the desk. "Just sit tight and I'll work out that mess you call plumage as quickly as I can." 

"Don't—" Peter says, and then Wright grabs hold of his shirt and pulls it free of his trousers and he shuts his mouth tightly, shuts his eyes, as if either of those actions will help him steel himself against Wright catching the gland at the base of his spine between the comb's tips and pinching, sliding the comb sideways against it to catch the oil that seeps out. As if there is any action he can take that will keep any sort of composure, with an untucked shirt and his preening gland dripping oil down his back and Wright's proprietary hold on his wing, coaxing him to unfold it and holding it open across the desk. 

"You have a very impressive wingspan," he murmurs. "If only you took care of it." 

Peter opens his mouth to reply, make some comment under his breath— 

His voice catches on a gasp as Wright runs the comb over the first of his flight feathers. It doesn't hurt. Pain would be merciful compared to this gentle, flaying intimacy, to the tug down to his bones as each feather is separated from its fellows and smoothed over. Wright is no less thorough for all his fluid efficiency—he must have had a lot of practise, Peter thinks, breathing through his nose and making hardly any noise, because he breezes through the kind of deep clean that takes Peter half an hour of twisting and swearing. 

"Nothing to do about these," Wright comments, and Peter feels his bare hand comb through his feathers, realizes where it's headed, and has half a dread-soaked second before—

Wright runs the pad of his thumb up a pinfeather, not yet grown in and far too sensitive to be handled, and Peter's whole body flinches, a strangled chirp dragging itself out of his throat in spite of his efforts. He turns his head even further away, face and ears flushing hotly. It's involuntary, a reaction to what might as well be Wright touching an open wound, but he doesn't want Wright to know this is getting to him, however pointless trying to hide from an avatar of the Beholding is. 

"Hm," Wright says neutrally, and then he does it again. Peter yelps, tries to lean away and stifles a cry as Wright's grip on his wing tightens. "Hold  _ still,"  _ Wright scolds. "If you'd taken proper care of yourself, I wouldn't have to do this." He finally, mercifully, lets go of Peter's wing, only to grab hold of his other. "And learn how to  _ control  _ yourself.”

This time he runs his hand down Peter's back and massages his oil gland skin to skin. His palm is hot, and the gesture burns in of itself in its overfamiliarity, in how it should feel far more awful than it does. He grooms Peter's other wing with the same economy of movement, but every so often his grip slackens enough to rub over the arch of Peter's wing-wrist, possessive.

Peter is near tears when Wright finishes from sheer humiliation, biting his lip to keep from whining outright. He hates how Wright treats him like a child, how he makes him struggle for control of himself, and most of all how when Wright lets him go he feels almost  _ grateful. _

"Now," Wright says, clamping a hand down on the nape of his neck and steering him over to a door he hasn't noticed before, "tuck your shirt in and make yourself presentable." He opens the door to reveal a closet filled with office supplies and holding a scattered few clothes hangers, over which are draped suit jackets and trousers in muted tones. There is one waistcoat in a handsome blue Peter admits in the privacy of his own mind to liking, and it is this that Wright takes a hold of, removes and hands to him. "Wear this," he says. 

Peter stares down at it. Something about the cut seems old, perhaps even outdated, but it is undeniably of fine quality. The color is inoffensive, if more saturated than is typical, and with what little eye for fashion Peter has he guesses it goes well with his suit. Its buttons, he notes, are decorated richly with wide-open eyes.

If he wears this, it will be, at best, a statement that he is attending under someone's wing, so to speak. At worst it is a declaration of ownership. He looks up at the director, willing him to change his mind, to say  _ we're late enough, let's leave.  _

"Put it on," snaps Wright. 

He puts the waistcoat on. 

It fits as though it was made for him to begin with. Wright's agile hands fasten it around his wings and, with unsteady hands, Peter does up the front buttons. Wright prods him back into his jacket, tugs at the fit of it around his shoulders, and then, before they leave, he says "Ah, one last thing."

He plucks a loose covert from the arch of his own wing and turns back to his desk, retrieving what turns out to be a pin clasp. "Hold still," he says, and affixes it to Peter's jacket. 

Peter makes the mistake of eye contact. Wright's eerie grey eyes are crinkled in what Peter can only read as  _ satisfaction.  _

"Why," he starts, and then doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He does not, he finds, particularly want Wright to answer him, or even to acknowledge that he has done anything. If he ignores Wright's marks stamped on him, the waistcoat that fits him perfectly save for its unsubtle eye motif and the pale grey feather (so overformal, so like a courting gift) pinned to it, he does not have to think about what Wright means by them. 

But James Wright is the Head of the Magnus Institute and does not care in the slightest for Peter’s preferences besides, and he answers Peter’s unasked questions. “You are attending this meeting on the basis of your relationship with the Institute, represented by me, and visibly young as you are the association will do you no harm, as far as standing goes.” In Wright's mouth  _ young  _ might as well be a curse, and his eyes rake over Peter's streaked plumage. "My presence will give you some measure of leniency, as it were, though I suspect you will still be tested." 

Wright is blatantly incorrect. The invitation was extended to Peter as an interested member of the Lukas family, which has been around far longer than Wright and his institute. Peter is an avatar in his own right, and he does not need Wright’s overbearing hand on his shoulder to protect him. 

A fraction of that hideously painful gaze from before comes to bear on him, and he flinches. 

Wright smiles. His eyes are as cold as the sea. "I'm glad you understand," he says, and Peter—

does not contradict him. 

(He would have followed anyway, he thinks, as the two of them make their way through the institute, and Wright's grip on the back of his jacket's collar, steering him along, is entirely unnecessary. He says nothing.) 

—

There is always work to be done at the Magnus Institute. Perhaps moreso than there could be, but then Elias does not enjoy the idea of delegation, not when his name is on the letterhead. There is no reason why he cannot, if he so chooses, take care of the day-to-day administration tasks himself, and he likes to think it adds a certain touch. It  _ does  _ cut into his personal time, which is why nine in the evening on a Friday finds him locking the door to his office and shedding his jacket, flexing his wings. 

It is vanishingly unlikely that anyone will disturb him at this hour; one by one the windows in the institute have gone dark, and by now the only lights left on belong to the janitor on the second floor. She is puttering around, mopping the bathroom and reluctant to leave. Leaving will mean she has to face her dark and empty flat alone just as she has done for the past week, and now she has no cat to explain away the noises.

He breathes in, allowing himself a moment or two to savor her dragging steps and impending terror while unearthing the preening comb at the back of the drawer, and then he reluctantly pulls his attention away to attend to current matters, rolling up his sleeves and untucking his shirt. He oils the comb impatiently and dabs the excess off his back with a tissue before it can stain his shirt. Having a body is much more convenient than the alternative, of course, but he is rather tired of the myriad tiny annoyances that come with one by now, however much modern appliances ease the various processes such an existence makes necessary. 

He wonders, as he has before, what his former companions would have to say. Certainly they would consider his life one of unimaginable luxury, he reflects, mouth twisting into a wry smile. Would they recognize him, were they somehow to see him alive now? Would any of them be surprised?

The length of his wings—skylark feathers, in a dozen shades of tan—is no longer a surprise to him, and although he misses his vast span of before they’re certainly easier to reach—something he’s thankful for, as his primaries have reached a truly disgraceful state and his secondaries aren’t much better. He sighs, begins the process of combing the disheveled barbs back into alignment with each other. 

Certainly the good doctor Fanshawe would have nothing more to say about his ascent, save perhaps that he had been correct to cease their correspondence. He had been such an avid source of information, before—Jonah had thought to gain a story, and not that Jonathan would be rendered so distraught at the sight of a manifestation of his entity that he would swear off writing entirely. His mouth twists. He finishes combing a feather back into shape, meticulous, and moves on to the next. 

He hadn’t, precisely, thought that taking the books for himself would bring Albrecht von Closen’s death, although when word reached him of von Closen’s condition he had felt—

What, precisely, had he felt? The years wear at his memories, a fading away that he feels keenly and resents. A kind of resignation, perhaps, mingled with the intrigue that had long before began smouldering inside of him? Triumph, mingled with a vague sense of loss? He hadn’t much cared for Albrecht, beyond his appreciation for the man’s eagerness fetching tales. Perhaps he hadn’t felt at all for the man. Something about the thought gnaws at him, but he sets it aside. 

Now, Barnabas—Elias’s hand stills on his wing for a moment, remembering a different touch on different feathers. It is not so difficult a question to answer, that of his past feelings towards poor foolish Barnabas. The bones in his office are worn smooth, scoured as if by sand, no trace of the flesh that once clung to them remaining. They could almost be a reminder,  _ memento mori,  _ if he went in for that sort of thing. 

Barnabas had lived and died wreathed in a mist that never quite obscured him, til at last he was lost to Jonah’s vision entirely. Jonah, young and foolish and so very curious, had not seen it, and then when he had it was far too late to extricate himself, though he tried—distancing himself from the man, from his clever hands and the way he forever perched on the brink of decorum, never outright rude but so very  _ indelicate.  _ No confidante was he—too flighty, inclined to make light of the powers—but he had been, perhaps, a friend. Had certainly cared for Jonah, as much as he cared for anyone. Had trusted him enough to beg for his life. 

In the grand scheme of things, it mattered so little. Whether Barnabas had gone before his time or not had no bearing on the inevitability of Jonah’s lifetime, how over the years he has seen all but a few points of contact dead and in the ground, and those few still living with no love for him. It does not tear at him as much as it once did. He does not ache for shared intimacy, not when he can see through the eyes of anyone he so chooses. The statements he’s amassed here, the artifacts, and the fear he drinks in, these are enough; the fruits of his own labors sustain him, and as always his fear drives him, as it does anyone. He does not especially want for anything, these days. 

And yet—and yet. He is not inhuman enough not to feel the chill of his solitude, on occasion. He is not so beyond the pleasures of life that he cannot miss those few who used to bring him joy. He is not cold enough by nature to shun even the memory of warmth, little though he wants it from the people around him now; he is not blind to the— 

— _ gnawing tug, the awareness of something being out of place _ — 

He recognizes the tenor of these thoughts.

He turns his gaze outward, searching, and  _ yes, there _ . A metaphysical haze; a wisp of fog, drifting in the corner. There are hints of obscured detail, but nothing he can discern. 

"How very droll, Peter," he says. His breath condenses in the cold air, and his voice echoes oddly in the too-empty Institute.

A pause, somehow audible even in the silence. A faint chuckle, underscored by a hiss of rising static. "Hello, Elias. Working late?" 

“Hardly work.” His sight is still blurry, much to his chagrin. He twists to see the Lukas family’s latest scion ragged as ever—moreso, even. One of his eyebrows is bifurcated by a cut that must have just missed his eye, and a generous handful of his flight feathers are badly damaged. "Good lord, you’re looking rather the worse for wear. Was molting rough this year?"

He knows better. Peter has somehow managed an excuse to avoid him for the span of every single molting period since the first meeting he'd attended with James Wright. It's impressive, and even more so for being unconscious.

Peter scowls, irritation-fear flickering across his face at the question. "Hardly the season. No, one of Salesa's crew had a mix-up."

Elias raises his eyebrows. "And you…" 

“Escaped with my life!” says Peter, abruptly swinging back to his standard cheer. The man is a fascinating study in contrasts. Pity that it’s hard to see into his head these days. Not that Elias  _ needs  _ his powers to manipulate him. “But I’m not here to talk about _ my  _ travels, Elias.”

Ah. Though looking away itches at him, Elias half-turns his back and resumes his grooming routine. “You’re here on family business, then.” 

The patch of fog in his mental map of the Institute shifts, nebulous. Elias glances back—and looks up, Peter looming above him, wings half-spread. He looks down, not quite meeting Elias’s gaze. “That I am,” he agrees. “Just why  _ have  _ your travel expenses jumped so steeply?” 

“The Archivist is in search of a way to stop the Unknowing,” Elias says, “and I deemed it an important enough cause to fund his efforts.” He squints at a particularly disheveled feather, realigning the barbs until they finally take to each other. “Is that all, Peter?”

Peter’s coat swishes around his heels, marking his otherwise soundless steps as he paces across Elias’s office. “Another interfering Archivist, then.”

“I didn’t control Gertrude, and as of yet he’s no threat to you.” Elias flexes his wing, satisfied, then folds it, ready to tend to his other. 

Or tries to. And fails, because there’s a hand locked around his wing-wrist. He stills. “There’s no need to be impolite,” he says, voice level. 

“Tell me this one won’t be like the last one,” Peter snaps, fingers digging into the fragile joint and his other hand tight on Elias’s shoulder. There is a distant roll of drumbeats, far off, like thunder. For an instant Elias wonders if Peter intends to break bone, and then the moment passes and he relaxes somewhat, though he does not let go. Elias chances a look back. He’s staring off into the middle distance. “Better yet, tell my family. The last time they contacted me they weren’t happy with you.” 

“And the Lukases are usually such a joyous coterie,” sighs Elias, fake-mournfully. He sobers at the feeling of Peter’s grip tightening once more. “Jon and Gertrude are not at all alike, and If your family cares to contact me directly I’ll put their fears to rest.”

“Thank you, Elias, that’s very helpful,” Peter groans, though he releases Elias’s wing.

“Glad to be of service,” he says brightly. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something. Unless you have any reason to linger?”

“I certainly didn’t come here for the company,” Peter mutters, and straightens, tucking his hand in his pocket. The lack of weight on his shoulder is more of a loss than it should be. Elias pays it no more mind than he has to. 

“Be seeing you, Peter.” He pauses. “Do watch that anger of yours. Slaughter isn’t your style.” 

_ “Goodbye,”  _ Peter says pointedly. The fog fades from the institute, leaving only Elias in his office. 

He returns to his task, feeling rather rejuvenated. The wisps of violence clinging to Peter won’t last long, of course, but they certainly made for a more interesting conversation. Perhaps he could replicate the effect—there are a few artifacts in storage he’d love to put to good use, and he’s almost due to win a bet. 

For now, though, the lights turn out, the janitor making her dawdling way home, and he sits back to watch. 

**Author's Note:**

> relevant wing list  
> -jonah: swan, though not explicitly described  
> -james: pigeon  
> -elias: skylark  
> -peter: albatross
> 
> god this was SUCH A CHORE to write and it just KEPT GETTING LONGER and im STILL NOT 100% happy with the characterization but i NO LONGER care  
> im so tired enjoy the most problematic thing ive written to date


End file.
